


Saving The Storm

by RowWithAChipNPin



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, Hurt, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Slash, Near Death Experiences, Near Future, Paralysis, Rehabilitation, Roommates, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowWithAChipNPin/pseuds/RowWithAChipNPin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a fight gone horribly wrong leaves Gokudera crippled and near death, Yamamoto makes it his personal mission to get him back on his feet. Gokudera, of course, doesn't handle it nearly as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Middle

Yamamoto tapped the headset, trying to get anything but static; the explosion must have caused interference. Around him the battle raged on; the distinct smells of metallic blood and smoke infiltrated his nose, stinging and making his eyes water. Blood pounded in his ears, blocking out the screams of pain and anger that filled the air of the warehouse. His sword was slick with blood of the enemies, and it would only be later that he would realize how he left a trail of bodies in his wake. The cacophony of fire being traded between the Vongola and the enemy was deafening; it hurt his ears and grated on his nerves.

Somewhere to his right, gunfire exploded, pummeling the warehouse wall with lethal slugs. He dropped to his knees, ducking behind a low wall and cursing. He couldn't get anyone over the comms, and that worried him. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and something wasn't right. Call it soldier's sense, call it swordsman's intuition—he didn't care, all he knew was that something didn't feel right about all this.

Something was very, very wrong. His Family was in danger. His Boss was in danger.

He tapped it again, scowling. The static fizzled and finally, finally, he got a connection.

"— _moto! Y-Yamamoto! C-can you hear me?"_

Yamamoto almost cried out in relief when he heard Tsuna's voice through the link; how long had it been since he'd seen the telltale flashes of orange flames? Too long.

"Yo, Tsuna!" he said into the mic, ducked another barrage of gunfire. He winced and bit his lip when a shard of shrapnel grazed his leg.

" _Y-Yamamoto! H-help! I need help!"_

It struck Takeshi how scared Tsuna sounded, and his heart skipped a beat. The Vongola Tenth's voice was shaky and hiccup-y, and it sounded like he'd been crying; it sounded like he was still crying. Battle didn't scare Tsuna anymore; he hated it, of course, but he had accepted it as a necessary evil long ago. They weren't kids anymore, they were adults (nineteen counts as an adult, right?). So what had Tsuna so bothered? There was only one answer to that.

"Tsuna," Yamamoto said slowly, "what happened? What's wrong?"

He dove out of the way as a hand grenade landed a few feet from where he was crouching; he hit the concrete in a roll and was back on his feet in a heartbeat, putting his sword through two of the enemy soldiers. If he didn't survive this battle, he was taking as many of these fuckers as possible. They'd crossed a line when they started pimping out little kids to perverts, and Takeshi had been the first to volunteer for the attack mission. Kids being used as sex slaves was unforgivable; Yamamoto had images of Lambo, I-Pin, and Fuuta whenever he thought about it, and he didn't know if he'd ever been more furious.

He hoped his tone didn't betray how worried he was. Tsuna was like a little brother to him; Yamamoto didn't know what he would do if something happened to him. But no, it was worse than that—so much worse he couldn't have even imagined.

" _I-it's not me!"_

Yamamoto's blood went cold in his veins. That meant it was one of the Family. His heart stuttered to a halt in his chest as reality crashed down on him. _No_ , he thought desperately, _not him._

_Anyone but him._


	2. A Lot of Waiting and Praying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an awful lot of waiting, praying, and brooding

Yamamoto sat waiting, his hands buried in his dark hair, the toe of his scuffed, muddy sneaker tapping the ground at odd intervals to a melody no one else could hear. The hand on his watch echoed his heartbeat, and he didn't need to look at it to know that it was long past midnight. The air was cold and eerily still, smelling of antiseptic and bleach; the chair he was sitting in was stiff and uncomfortable, but he didn't care, didn't even notice.

He could still see it in his mind's eye, the moment when he skidded to a stop in front of Tsuna and Gokudera. He would never be able to forget it; he would wake up in the middle of the night for years, gasping for breath and desperate for proof that his best friend was still there, still alive. Three days after, he could still hear the gunfire and screaming in his ears, could still feel the explosion rock through his body, could still see Tsuna crouched over Gokudera, both of them covered in blood.

He'd been in the east half of the warehouse when an explosion had gone off in the south, blowing a hole in the wall and sending a shockwave through the interior.

_He braced himself against the concussive wave as it swept over him, closing his eyes against the wind; he dropped to his knees, covering his face and gripping his sword. On his finger, the rain Vongola ring glowed blue and burned his skin, and he knew. Somehow, he knew, deep in his being: someone in his Family was in danger, possibly mortal danger. The windows in the warehouse, high above him, shattered; shards of broken glass rained down on him, slicing his arms and digging into his shoulders and back._

_He felt the heat against his face as a huge fireball lit up the warehouse; angry flames licked the ceiling and thick, black smoke filled the rows of shipping containers. He'd seen bigger and hotter explosions, but something about this one felt world-shattering—as if he'd just lost the thing he held closest to his heart._

Takeshi sighed and straightened up, taking one of Gokudera's insipid, limp hands in both of his own. He traced the veins beneath the translucent skin, trying to convince himself that Hayato was only cold and clammy because of the chilliness of the room. He'd always admired Hayato's hands, how smooth and nimble they were when they danced across the keys of a piano, or when they put together his sticks of dynamite, or thumbing through the pages of a book. It had always amazed him how, despite his affinity for explosives and his equally combustible personality, Gokudera had managed to keep his hands relatively unscathed. Unlike his own, there were no calluses and minimal scars, only smooth porcelain skin—usually. Now, though, instead of simply pale, he seemed washed out, ashen,—what's the word? He searched his memory for a word he'd heard once that fit—pallid. He looked sickly.

It had been a tense, worried, _terrified_ twelve-hour wait as Shamal and Namimori's best tried to save Gokudera's life. Takeshi kissed his fingertips reverently, praying that it wasn't as bad as Shamal had said. No matter what happened, they would find a way through it, and he would _never_ stop loving Hayato, but they were facing the worst: _a shard of glass through his back…severed muscles and nerves…life-threatening blood loss…injury to the lumbar and sacral regions of the spine…dangerously close to the spinal cord…permanent damage._ None of those phrases were in any way reassuring.

He couldn't deny that Gokudera looked terrible—almost as terrible as he felt. Takeshi stared at the tube running from Hayato's nose to a machine, the IVs in his rights arm, the cuts and mottled bruises married china pale skin, the bandages…all those bandages. The burns had been wrapped up, and the doctors said that none of those were life-threatening. The real danger was the blood loss and lung damage. Gokudera's breathing was shallow, weak, and shaky; his beautiful silver hair was faded and wilted on the pillow. His eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, and Takeshi knew that Hayato was in the throes of a dream; he hoped it was a good one, better than the reality, because their reality sucked ass at the moment.

The room was near silent, punctuated by the faint hum of the machines and the _beep-beep-beep_ of the heart monitor. A few awful times, the constant beeping had faltered, and each time Takeshi froze, waiting desperately for the crucial indication that Hayato's heart was still beating to even out. If they lost Gokudera—if _he_ lost Hayato—he didn't know what he would do.

"Oh 'Dera, please wake up. Give me some sign you can hear me," he begged.

The beeping of the heart monitor was his only response; Takeshi had expected nothing less. The doctors had informed him that it could be awhile before Gokudera woke up, if he ever did. He took a lot of damage; they predicted he would never walk again.

_Yamamoto knelt behind a particularly large piece of rubble, knuckles white on the katana's hilt. He could hear movement around the corner, and he hoped and prayed that it was one of his; there was enough blood on his sword. He'd heard from Ryohei and Chrome since Tsuna contacted him, and he didn't expect a word from Hibari. That just left Gokudera, the noxious and striking Gokudera Hayato. Taking a deep breath, he left his hiding spot and launched himself over the chunk of concrete. And his heart stopped in his chest and the blood in his veins turned to ice water, because the sight that greeted him ripped a gaping hole in his life._

_Tsuna was kneeling on the ground over a body, blood covering his arms up to his elbows. His T-shirt and jeans were torn and scruffy, and there was a nasty-looking cut on his arm, but what struck Yamamoto were the tears running down his face and the way his small shoulders shook violently. Yamamoto would have normally been thankful that Tsuna was alive and relatively unharmed, but the body on the ground kicked whatever relief he might have had into next week._

_Surrounded by crumbled concrete and twisted metal pipes, lying on his stomach in a pool of his own blood, was Gokudera Hayato. His sterling silver hair was tarnished red, his clothes soaked. Tsuna was kneeling next to him, his jeans saturated in crimson liquid; he'd balled up his jacket and was pressing it against the wound in Gokudera's back. Tsuna's head jerked up as Yamamoto approached, and relief flooded his eyes._

_"Yamamoto!" he exclaimed. "Are you okay?" Leave it to Tsuna to be worried about his Rain Guardian's welfare when he was elbow-deep in his Storm Guardian's blood._

_Yamamoto nodded and crouched down next to the brunet. "Go," he said to Tsuna. "The Vongola emergency team should be here by now. Go tell them to get ready!" He nudged the smaller teen out of the way, replacing his hands with his own; almost immediately, his hands were flooded with warm blood, and he was afraid he'd be sick then and there. "I'll be right behind you with Gokudera."_

_Tsuna didn't wait to ask questions; with near preternatural speed, he was gone, sprinting back through the warehouse towards help. Yamamoto took a closer look at Gokudera, and his heart sank. The bomber's skin, in the places it wasn't covered in crimson, was chalky and paler than usual, and his lips were turning blue. Yamamoto had assumed that Gokudera was unconscious, but when he shifted and put pressure on the wound, Gokudera shuddered and groaned; his eyes flickered open, hazy and unfocused._

_"Hey, Gokudera," Yamamoto said, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm gonna have to move you, okay?"_

_Green eyes drifted up to look at him—no, not_ at _him, just in his general direction. Gokudera couldn't see him, he realized; he only hoped that the bomber could at least understand him._

_"It's gonna hurt, I know, but I have to move you to get you help." With one hand still firmly holding the compress in place, he slid his other arm under Gokudera and, swift like ripping off a bandage, he flipped the bomber, cushioning his upper back. Gokudera cried out, tears coming to his eyes. Slowly, Yamamoto stood, cradling Gokudera against him and muttering apologies._

_"I'm gonna get you help, Gokudera," he promised as he started running for the emergency team. "You're going to be okay."_

The sound of rustling cloth drew him out of his musings, and his head shot up. Beautiful jade eyes looked at him blearily. Fuzzy and unfocused, but _open._ Takeshi's heart soared, and his lips spread in a grateful, mildly hysterical smile as he thanked the gods that the Storm Guardian had made it through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make my day and drop a comment, please! It won't make me nicer to the boys, but it will make me smile.


	3. Waking Up to a New Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gokudera wakes up from a nightmare only to find out the truth is much worse.
> 
> Or, in which the author has a tendency to paralyze people and hand out guilt trips like party favors.

_He's in a heavy black cloud, surrounded by darkness and fog—nothing to see, nothing to hear. There's just a heaviness in his chest, as if a weight is pressing down on him. So heavy he can't move. There's nothing under his feet yet they never waver; there is no ending or beginning, only darkness as far as he can see. Only it isn't seeing, not really. He can't remember how to open his eyes, yet he can feel it, the darkness, all around him._

_He can't hear, can't see, can't move. There's nothing but dark. His chest burns, his throat is on fire. Everything hurts, but not like getting shot or breaking a limb; it's a low, aching pain that throbs throughout his entire body, pulsing and humming in his veins. He figures that he should be worried that he can't remember his name, or what happened, or how he got to the void in the first place. Somehow, though, he can't find the strength to care. It's as if everything is unimportant._

_It seems like forever and a half before he realizes the darkness is receding, and sound reaches his ears. Beeping, an annoying as hell beeping in his ears; the buzz of machines and the clicking of feet. Quiet talking, a person speaking softly; why does he get the feeling that they're talking to him? He tries to listen, to make out the words, but they're muffled and muddled, as if coming through an intercom flooded with white noise._

_There's a pressure under his body, and he tries not to hurl as the world tilts on its axis and he's lying on his back instead of floating. He doesn't struggle; no, he_ can't _struggle, because when he tries to move, pain—agonizing pain that sears his nerves like wildfire—explodes in his lower back. So he lies still and strains to hear, trying desperately to make sense of it all. Where is he? He takes in the lack of light on his closed eyelids; there is no pinkish orange glow of artificial light, no sun to warm his skin. He struggles to open his eyes. No, no, ah! Success._

Gokudera blinked once, twice, looking up at the person sitting at the bedside. As the blurry figure came into focus, he recognized him as Yamamoto. _What the hell…?_ He tried to remember what happened, because something _obviously_ happened—the other teen was grinning like a crazy fucking idiot.

"Hey," Yamamoto said softly, "welcome back."

It broke his heart how grateful the baseball idiot looked, how happy. What the fuck had happened? His memory was hazy; he couldn't remember anything past kicking in the door to the warehouse. After that, after separating from the group and heading into the fray, he remembered squat.

Gokudera wet his lips and swallowed, but his voice still cracked when he said, "Where am I?"

Yamamoto squeezed his hand, sending a comforting wave of warmth through him; wait, what? Since when was the baseball idiot holding his hand _comforting_? "You—" Yamamoto swallowed and tried again. "You're in the hospital, Gokudera. It's been three days since the warehouse. I—We thought we'd lost you there for a while."

Gokudera's brief period of lucidity faded as the fuzziness cleared from his head, replaced with sharp, debilitating pain. He cried out, gripping the bedspread as agony exploded in his back. Yamamoto cursed and scrambled to his feet, knocking the chair away. Gokudera couldn't tell what he was doing, but a moment later, soothing ice slid through his veins. Slowly, the fire dimmed to a low ache. It wasn't gone, but he didn't feel like someone was setting off Molotov cocktails in his nervous system.

He groaned and relaxed his death grip on the sheets as Yamamoto righted his chair and retook his seat. They sat in silence for a while as the drugs took effect; Gokudera stared at the ceiling and tried to deduce why he wasn't disturbed by the way Yamamoto held his hand and rubbed his thumb over the knuckles. All logic told him that he should have been repulsed and pulled away, at the very least, but for some fucked up reason, he didn't mind. In fact, it was almost calming, like a tether to reality.

The bomber tried to say something, but nothing came out except a choked grunt. He figured he must look pitiful, like a puppy drenched in the rain, and equally helpless. The corners of his eyes wrinkled with pain, and he pressed his lips together to hold back another groan. Yamamoto gave his hand a gentle squeeze before standing up and fetching a cup of water from the sink. He slid a hand under Gokudera's head, frowning at the hiss of pain that bubbled from the silveret, and held the paper cup to Gokudera's lips.

Hayato was too thirsty to care and drank greedily, eyes sliding shut as the lukewarm water eased the pain in his parched throat. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start, and he drained the cup quickly. Something resembling a thank you _may have_ slipped past his lips as he allowed his head to sink back against the pillow. Yamamoto brushed back a stray strand of hair away from his face, concern and relief written all across his features, and it hit Gokudera like a sack of bricks: Yamamoto looked grateful because Gokudera was still alive, still breathing, still swearing.

Finally, Gokudera found the courage to ask, "So what's the prognosis, _yakubaka_? Because I feel like fucking shit…" he swallowed, "and I can't feel my legs."

A shadow fell over Yamamoto's face and he looked down at their entwined hands. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and full of so much pain that it hurt Hayato's heart.

"I—I'm not sure how to tell you this, 'Dera," he said, using the nickname Gokudera hated with all his being. For some reason, be it the icy hand clutching his heart or the numbness crawling up his spine, Gokudera didn't object. Yamamoto cleared his throat and continued, "but the enemy family set off a bomb—definitely one of theirs, not yours—that destroyed part of their own warehouse. The blast blew out the windows, and a shard of glass embedded itself in your lower back, right near your spine."

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Oh God, 'Dera, all that blood…I thought you were going to die. Tsuna found you first and kept you from bleeding to death, but he couldn't stop it. When I got there…" His voice was breaking, and for the first time, Gokudera wanted to pull the Rain Guardian into a hug and make the hurt go away.

"The doctors said something about damage to the lumbar and sacral regions of the spine, but the glass didn't hit the spinal cord, which is good. And, the physiatrist says the paralysis should be temporary," he said, trying to put false cheer into his voice. It wasn't working. "He says that the damage wasn't to your legs but your lower back, so as long as it doesn't get worse, you'll be able to walk again." He squeezed Gokudera's hand and tried to give him a reassuring smile.

"You _will_ walk again, Gokudera, I promise. It'll take work and it'll take some time, but you _will_ walk again."

He stopped trying to fake it and bent his head until it was resting on their hands.

"Oh Hayato, oh 'Dera, I'm so sorry. If I'd gotten there sooner, if I could've stopped it from happening, you wouldn't be hurt. I am so, so, _so_ sorry."

The swordsman's shoulders were shaking, and he was holding onto Gokudera's hand like a lifeline. After a moment's hesitation, Gokudera squeezed back, silently telling Yamamoto that it wasn't his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! I'll take anything, really.


	4. Broken Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the chapter is short, but more than makes up for it with angst, angst, and more angst.
> 
> Or, in which the author takes out her frustrations at summer projects out on our favorite boys.

The feeling of the sheets against his skin was soft and light, draped over his legs and abdomen. When the doctor came to see him, he was sitting up in the bed, staring blankly at the wall across from him, seeing without seeing. Yamamoto had stayed with him through the night, but the nurse had talked him into leaving. Gokudera had been stoned on pain meds and barely conscious, so he didn't know what the bitchy lady had actually said; he just knew that one minute Yamamoto was sitting next to him holding his hand, the next the baseball idiot was smoothing his hair and whispering in his ear.

_"I'll be back later, Gokudera, I promise."_

The drugs were wearing off now, and his back hurt like hell; he'd had the shit beat out of him plenty of times before—when he was on the streets in Italy trying to make a name for himself, the Ring Battle, the fight with Gamma in the future, to name a few. But this was completely different, and for the first time, he prayed for death.

Because this wasn't just a few broken bones, scrapes, and a concussion. This was a crippling handicap; he would never walk again, no matter what Yamamoto had said. He could barely feel his legs, no more than a tingle of awareness, and when he'd tried to shift them earlier, pain had shot straight from his back down his legs. He wondered idly what life would be like without use of his legs; he'd never thought of it before, they'd always been there before. Now his legs were useless. _I'll never run again,_ he thought glumly as he considered everything he would never do, _run, dance—_ as if he ever would— _walk, kick…_ He briefly wondered if sex was in the equation; he doubted it.

He'd broken plenty of bones before, but never had he felt something like this. The emotional pain hurt far worse than the physical. Without his legs, he couldn't be the Storm Guardian; he couldn't fight for the Family if he couldn't walk. He couldn't be the Tenth's right-hand man if he couldn't defend him. It wasn't just his legs that were numb, it was his heart. There was a void in his life that would never be filled.

He realized the doctor was talking to him and started listening; the doc was talking about possible complications—none of which sounded pleasant—and what he could do to prevent them. It all summed up to three points:

One, he would be confined to a wheelchair until further notice to prevent fucking up the injury even more and completely losing any chance he had of walking again;

Two, if he didn't follow Rule One, he was risking permanent paralysis at best and death at worst, with increasingly nasty-sounding conditions in between;

And three, even if he did walk again, he still would never be as fast or as dependable as before.

In other words, he was royally fucked no matter what. Even if, by some miracle, he did walk again, he wouldn't be able to defend the Tenth if he wasn't at a hundred percent. He was nineteen and he'd have a bad back for the rest of his life. His life was over before it had even begun; since meeting the Tenth, he'd only ever imagined his life with the Family. He'd had his future planned, and he'd never once thought twice: he would actively serve and protect the Family as the Storm Guardian while taking online classes to get degrees in chemistry, physics, mathematics with an emphasis on economics and business.

Now all his careful and meticulous planning was shot to hell. Everything he'd planned on doing—protecting the Tenth, fighting for the Vongola—was all gone if he couldn't walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, assuming there's anyone out there!  
> ...  
> ...  
> ...  
> Anyone?


	5. Advice From the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tsuna is an all-knowing Boss and meddles in his Guardians' love lives.

After the doctor finally gave up on trying to get through to him and left, he simply continued to stare blankly at the wall, his miserable and hate-filled thoughts swirling round and round in his head like a demented merry-go-round (he'd always hated those). Distantly he toyed with the idea of suicide, but quickly dismissed it; he didn't want to upset the Tenth any more than he already had.

Someone knocked at the door hesitantly and he forced a smile as it opened and Tsuna stepped in. Subzero guilt gripped his heart—this was his fault. The Tenth looked washed out and tired, like he hadn't slept in several days; the dark bruise-like smudges under his eyes made him look haunted, and his eyes were bloodshot. There were bandages on his face and arms, stark white against his skin, and the way he walked, Gokudera knew the Tenth'd broken at least one rib on the left side.

"J-Juudaime!" he exclaimed, hating the way his voice sounded weak and hoarse. What he hated even more was how troubled the Tenth looked. It was his fault, because he'd gotten himself hurt. Now, he wouldn't even be able to make it up to his boss.

Tsuna gave a little wave and tried to smile—it just made him look sadder. He hesitantly sat in the chair vacated by Yamamoto earlier, and looked down at his hands in his lap. They sat there in silence until Tsuna broke it.

"Gokudera…I am so sorry." Tsuna's voice broke, just like the baseball idiot's voice had when he'd apologized. Why was everyone apologizing? It was his own fucking fault.

"Why are you sorry, Juudaime?" he asked, puzzled. "It was my own damn fault I got hurt."

Tsuna stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and shook his head adamantly. "No! No, it was my fault. I should have been able to stop the explosion." He clenched his fists and growled, "What use is this stupid Vongola Intuition if I can't even protect my friends—can't protect you?"

Gokudera didn't know what to say to that; by the time he opened his mouth, the moment had passed, so he didn't say anything at all. They sat together in silence, and it struck Gokudera how strange this was. The silence between Gokudera and Tsuna was so different that the one he had with the baseball idiot; instead of comfortable and warm like a cozy old blanket, there was an underlying tension that Hayato couldn't explain.

Several minutes went by before Tsuna cleared his throat.

"I have to tell you, I'm leaving tonight for Italy with Hibari-san," he said, not looking at his Storm Guardian—his ever reliable, ever dependable, ever faithful Storm Guardian. "We're going to meet up with Dino and Enma, then we're going after the Uomo Che Cammina Morto Famiglia."

He was shaking, and at first Gokudera thought it was because of anxiety; then he realized it was with absolute fury. When he looked up at Gokudera, his eyes were alight with a fire Gokudera hadn't seen since Yuni and Gamma died in the future than never was.

"I-I'm sorry that I'm leaving before you're even out of the hospital, but we have to take this window or we'll lose them. I can't let that happen, Gokudera. They have to pay for what they did." There were tears in his eyes but his voice never wavered. "I told Yamamoto earlier to ask him if he wanted to come, but he said there was no way he's going anywhere until you're out of the danger zone."

He looked his Storm Guardian in the eyes and gave a little smile. 

"He meant it, too. Gokudera, Yamamoto is a good person. He's devoted and he's kind, and he truly cares about you." His face turned serious. "I have never seen him so angry and so scared as when he found us in the warehouse. The look in his eyes, it was like his world was falling apart. He was so worried about you, Gokudera; he never left your side. I think that if you hadn't made it, he would have found some way to join you."

There was nothing Gokudera could say to that.

"He's going to want to help you, Gokudera, and I think you should let him. He blames himself for what happened, just like I do; the difference is the way we're going to deal with our guilt. I'm going after the bastards who hurt my Family, and Yamamoto will throw his entire being into helping you get back on your feet. And he's going to do that because he's in love with you." 

Tsuna held up a hand to stop Gokudera's exclamation, and said solemnly, "Don't tell him I said anything, and whatever you do, don't let what I think influence your choices. But I think, if you give it some time and give him a chance…I think you could love him too."

And with his message delivered, Tsuna bid farewell, leaving Gokudera to watch him disappear through the door and muse over his words.

Is Juudaime right? Is the baseball idiot in love with me?

…Could I love him back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, come on! Really? Do I NEED to keep asking?


	6. An Arrangement of Convenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yamamoto is given the job of delivering some unfortunate and tantrum-inducing news to a bedridden and pissy Gokudera.
> 
> Or, in which the author reuses chapter titles shamelessly.

Yamamoto spent the next two weeks going between his job at his pop's restaurant, his apartment, and Gokudera's hospital room, doing his college work in his spare time—in the car at stop lights, on the sidetable while Dera was sleeping, during his break at Takesushi.

When Tsuna asked him if he wanted to go after the Uomo Che Cammina Morto Famiglia, it had taken all his strength to turn him down. There was only one thing Takeshi wanted more than to personally torture the men responsible for Gokudera's injuries; he wanted to stay by Gokudera's side and help him through this. He wanted to be there when Gokudera smiled again and meant it; he wanted to be there when he laughed—maybe even at one of Yamamoto's jokes.

But more than all of that, he wanted to be there when Gokudera recovered enough to walk again; he wanted to be there to _help_ him take his first new steps, to stand by him.

Yamamoto brushed Gokudera's hair out of his eyes; the silveret shifted in his sleep, unconsciously tilting his head towards the swordsman, murmuring his approval. He was captivated by the way it constantly flopped unceremoniously over his closed eyes; he always had been. He wanted so badly to bury his nose in that hair and take in the bomber's scent.

But that would be crossing a line he was balancing on; he was surprised that Gokudera hadn't socked him for holding his hand, but he had a sneaking suspicion that that had something to do with the drugs. Gokudera breathed softly, air whistling just the slightest bit through parted, pink lips, just begging to be kissed. It was so tempting to steal one while the bomber was resting, but no—that was stepping over the lane too. Actually, that was throwing himself off the cliff of Personal Boundaries and straight into the deadly, shark-infested waters of the Creepy-Love struck-Admirer Ocean.

Tsuna had never said as much, but Yamamoto could tell from the meaningful gleam in his caramel eyes that the Tenth Vongola Boss knew of his feelings; he knew that Yamamoto was in love with Gokudera. No, that's not quite right. He wasn't just _in love_ with Gokudera, but he was hopelessly, irrevocably, utterly head over heels for him. Yamamoto loved 'Dera's brash and reckless nature, his devotion to his friends, and his laugh and smile—when he meant it. He adored Gokudera's explosive temper and his tendency to slip into his native tongue when he got especially livid; Italian was such a beautiful language, particularly when it fell from Gokudera's lips.

Yamamoto loved Gokudera and he would do anything for him, and despite how much he wanted revenge for what happened, it was more important for Yamamoto to stay by the bomber's side. Tsuna would take care of the enemy; hell, without Yamamoto there, Tsuna wouldn't feel obligated to hold back. Him, Hibari, Enma, and Dino against the Uomo Che Cammina Morto Famiglia—Yamamoto almost felt bad for the poor bastards. They had no idea what they'd provoked when they set off the bomb.

Yamamoto smiled when Gokudera groaned and opened his eyes, blinking at him sleepily. He wished that the tired eyes would brighten, wished that the exhausted heartbeat would deepen and strengthen; the docs said that Gokudera was out of the danger zone, but his heart was still weak.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he said glibly. Gokudera scowled, tugged his hand out of Yamamoto's, and growled, "Shut the fuck up, _yakubaka_."

He was glad; Gokudera was cursing and insulting him, which meant he wasn't completely on Cloud Nine. When he'd first woken up, the bomber had been so stoned on painkillers he hadn't even objected when Yamamoto kissed him on the forehead and held his hand; Yamamoto treasured the memory of 'Dera's hand in his, because it would never happen again. Still, he was grateful that Gokudera was getting back to his own self; he knew how addictive Morphine could be.

"Maa, maa, Gokudera," Yamamoto laughed, "take it easy. I'm just joking!"

Gokudera grumbled, but let it drop. There was a moment of silence before Yamamoto cleared his throat. Gokudera looked at him expectantly, his face schooled into disinterest but his eyes betraying him.

"So," Yamamoto said, "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first, 'Dera?"

"I hate that name," the bomber growled. He mulled over it before saying, "Might as well get over it. Good first."

Yamamoto grinned and motioned to the plastic bag next to his chair. "The doctors have cleared you for release; you can go home—" Gokudera's eyes lit up and his lips spread in an uncharacteristic smile— "on a few conditions."

The smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. "And those would be…?"

"Well, for one, you have to stop smoking or you could increase the risk of complications—" Gokudera scowled and swore— "as expected, you're confined to a wheelchair until further notice, and you have to see a psychologist weekly."

Gokudera growled, low and menacing, but when he spoke, his voice was even and together. "Is that it?"

Yamamoto looked away and bit his lip; how did he tell Gokudera?

"Well, um—don't get mad, Dera," Yamamoto started, "but they won't release you under your own power. They'll only let you go if you agree to a temporary guardianship and living with a caregiver until they clear you." Yamamoto closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion; predictably, he was right.

_***The following has been censored due to its inappropriate nature and complete disregard for the English language*** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....comment, please?


	7. An Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys come to an agreement

Gokudera grumbled as Yamamoto unlocked the front door of his apartment; bad enough they wouldn't let him smoke and were demanding he see some stupid shrink, but they had the baseball idiot on babysitting duty? This was bullshit. Still, it was the only way he was getting out of that damnable house of death, he'd put up with it…for now; it wasn't like he was getting very far on his own.

At least the baseball idiot's apartment was on the ground floor; his was above a music store, and would be murder to get up the stairs in this damned contraption. That was another thing that completely sucked about this, yet another item to add to his "Reasons My Life Sucks" list: the wheelchair. He'd been provided with a hospital-issue wheelchair and it was taking every ounce of his self-control and a hell of a lot of painkillers to not stand up and smack the all-knowing smirk off that demon nurse. The fucking chair was uncomfortable, he kept catching his fingers in the wheel, and if he ran into one more thing, he was going to scream bloody murder.

When the bastard had told him what the doctors had said, Gokudera's reaction came in four stages:

First came denial: "You have _got_ to be _fucking_ kidding me!" "There is no way in fucking hell I'm living with a fucking babysitter!" "I'm fine on my own, I can take care of myself; I'm not a fucking kid!" Yamamoto listened, never flinching, never wavering; he didn't show any signs of exasperation, even though Gokudera knew he must be grating on the nerves, and it was annoying as hell.

Second came fury. He'd cursed the world up and down in every language he knew (Italian, English, German, Japanese, Chinese, and French) and punched the messenger in the mouth; the nurse from hell called security, who held him down until she could hit him with a sedative.

He skipped the bargaining stage and went straight to more anger, and another round of cursing. Yamamoto simply sat there and put up with it, holding an ice pack to his busted lip and bloodied nose, and in a surprising turn of events, Gokudera almost felt bad about punching him….almost.

Finally, he settled into a grudging acceptance, letting the doctors and Yamamoto negotiate the arrangement while grumbling and trying to ignore how nice it felt when the _yakubaka_ carded his hand through Gokudera's hair.

It was decided that until the fucking psychologist and docs cleared him, he had to live with the baseball idiot. Oh fucking joy.

He scowled as Yamamoto back up and held the door open. "I don't need your fucking help!" Not true, but like hell he was going to admit it. Yamamoto only smiled knowingly and nodded. "I know."

And yet he held the door open, and though Gokudera swore he didn't need it, he let him.


	8. Going Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author tries to pass this off as a chapter

As it turned out, physical therapy was not easy.

Of course, no one had ever said it would be—in fact, everyone from the doctors and his psychologist to Reborn and Dino had stressed exactly the opposite. Gokudera hadn't given the difficulty any thought; after all, he'd had to face down more than one "extremely, painfully difficult" task in his life, how different could it possibly be?

He was learning that physical therapy was, as the baseball idiot would say, a whole new ballgame. It wasn't the same as Shamal's tutoring, or facing down the Kokuyo Gang, the crazy knife-fanatic Bel, or the Millefiore and Gamma. This wasn't the same as fighting the Simon Family, or anything else like that. Every time he faced a challenge like those, no matter how hard or stressful or seemingly impossible, he'd always come through for the Family and for the Tenth. But this…

Even a single step was exhausting, frustrating him to no end because he knew that he could run for miles and _miles_ if only his legs would obey his demands. He hated the feeling of helplessness and weakness that the wheelchair brought, hated it with all his being, but he could barely stand without falling on his ass.

It wasn't even his legs that had been injured, no; that was what really got to him. It had been his back that had taken the damage, a mess of nerves and muscles that couldn't simply regenerate; hell, it was entirely likely that it would never heal.

Never leaving his side, Yamamoto had always been so kind to him, of course. He was strong, but gentle, always encouraging him to get up and _move,_ and always there to catch him when his legs buckled and gave out. He was also endlessly patient; sometimes, Gokudera wished the idiot wasn't so tolerating. What he wouldn't give for Yamamoto to lose his cool, for the baseball idiot to shout at him, or even just break a little under the pressure. Gokudera knew he couldn't be pleasant to be around when he was cursing and losing his temper.

This was one of those times.


	9. Scared To Move On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a monumental breakdown

You fucking idiot!" Gokudera screamed. "What the fuck are you still doing here? Tell me, why the _fuck_ are you wasting your time on me?"

He was crumpled on the ground, having managed only a single step before his legs gave out; he glared up at Yamamoto, daring him to lash out, yell back, do _something_ instead of just standing there and _smiling._

Yamamoto tsked and bent down, sliding an arm around Gokudera and pulling him up. " _Nagomu._ You shouldn't get so worked up, 'Dera. You knew it would be hard, don't beat yourself up over it."

He helped—well, half-carried—Gokudera back into his chair. The silveret shoved the baseball player's arm away as soon as he was sitting. "I don't need your fucking help!" he growled. "I can do this on my own."

Yamamoto ruffled his hair, unperturbed. If he let Gokudera get to him every time he lost his temper, he would have killed the bomber (or himself) years ago. "I know you can, but I want to help," he said cheerfully. He sobered. "Seriously, Gokudera, you can't expect to walk again right away without practice. It'll take some time, so don't flip out on me because you're frustrated."

It had been six months since the warehouse and since Gokudera moved in with Yamamoto—six months of frustration, swearing, pain medication, cigarette withdrawal, and learning to live with each other. Gokudera was a hell of a roommate, always angry and full of self-hatred that he took out on Yamamoto; Takeshi didn't mind much, as long as Gokudera was getting better. And he was getting better, slowly but surely, even if his temper wasn't.

The doctors had finally cleared him for rehabilitation, and it was just as difficult as Yamamoto had anticipated; apparently, Gokudera hadn't.

Green eyes narrowed into acidic slits, and the temperature dropped about ten degrees. "Don't fucking patronize me, asshole," he snapped. Yamamoto didn't take the insults to heart, because he knew that Gokudera didn't really mean them. He shook his head, but didn't call the bomber on it. Instead, he said patiently, "C'mon, 'Dera, try again."

Gokudera grumbled, but braced himself against the armrests and stood up shakily. His legs trembled beneath him and he bit his lip, and Yamamoto pretended he didn't see the fear in Gokudera's eyes. Fear was Gokudera's mortal enemy, and he was terrified of losing his ability to walk. If he couldn't walk, then he couldn't perform as a Guardian, and being Tsuna's Guardian was the most important thing in the world to Gokudera. How many times had Yamamoto listened through the door to Gokudera cry himself to sleep? He didn't know.

The most important thing for Yamamoto was making sure that Gokudera didn't lose his, and that was exactly what he was going to do. It was worth anything he could give to see Gokudera happy again.

Gokudera stood for a moment before hesitantly taking a step forward; his leg shook and his knuckles turned white on the armrests. Yamamoto offered him his arm, which Gokudera totally ignored. He took another step, and another; he managed three before his legs buckled and he pitched forward, yelping. Yamamoto barely managed to grab the bomber around the waist before he hit the ground.

Gokudera cursed, wiggling in Yamamoto's arms and grumbling. "This fucking sucks!"

Yamamoto agreed silently, but was too busy enjoying the feel of Gokudera in his arms to say so. He was warm, and Yamamoto fancied that he could actually feel Gokudera's flames radiating off him.

Ow. He could definitely feel a bony elbow to his gut. "Let me go, fucking idiot!"

Sighing, he scooped Gokudera into his arms and carried him back to the chair.

_Here we go again._


	10. What You Mean To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author finally backs off

Finally, after an hour, Gokudera managed to stumble his way from his chair to the bed, an expanse of nine feet. And Yamamoto couldn't have been happier for him—the look on Gokudera's face was just…simply amazing. His eyes lit up and he smiled in a way that Yamamoto had only ever seen reserved for Tsuna, and it was incredible. Gokudera didn't even mind when Yamamoto hugged him; in fact, he might have even leaned in and hugged back, if only for a moment.

The doctors gave him a pair of crutches to use, and Yamamoto knew that even though he was still pissed at being dependent on something, Gokudera was glad to be free of that damned chair. Being trapped, forced to rely on a metal and plastic chair to get around; it was torture to someone like Gokudera Hayato, someone used to having his freedom. Yamamoto was happy for him, and happy to see him back on his feet, even if it was painful.

When it was time to head back to the apartment, Yamamoto took the wheelchair with them, if only as a backup. Gokudera absolutely loathed the thing, but it would be good to have it just in case. Yamamoto walked beside Gokudera, managing to keep pace with him without making it seem like he was intentionally staying slow; Takeshi had faith in the bomber, but if Gokudera fell, he would always be there to catch him.

Always.

The moving was slow and shaky, and once they reached the elevator and the doors closed, Gokudera leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes and let out a hard, shaky breath.

Yamamoto pretended he didn't see, just like he'd pretended he hadn't seen the tears of frustration and the sweat on his brow. This was hard for Gokudera, physically and mentally: it had been months since he'd used his legs and in that time his muscles had forgotten what to do, and now he was scared that he wouldn't be able to walk anymore. The subconscious is a strange, mysterious, powerful force that wields unbelievable control over the body and conscious mind.

Gokudera had recovered by the time they reached ground floor, but was struggling when they made it to Yamamoto's red and black Challenger; Gokudera's motorcycle—a Yamaha RD350LC, the sexiest bike on the planet—was in storage at the Vongola base. Yamamoto lent him his arm as Gokudera slid into the passenger's seat, and flashed him a grin when the bomber growled something about not needing help. He went around to the driver's side and got in, starting up his baby; he'd picked the car with Gokudera in mind.

"You know," he said as he pulled out into the street, "I'm happy for you, 'Dera. I know how much this means to you, being able to walk again."

His voice was soft, but Gokudera heard him loud and clear in the confines of the car. The Italian bomber snorted and looked out the window at the passing streets of Namimori—shops and restaurants he knew, was that Sasagawa with his sister and the Kurokawa girl?

"You have no idea what it means, _yakubaka_ ," he said bitterly.

Yamamoto glanced at him, admiring his profile.

"Actually, I do. Remember when Kaoru attacked me in the locker room? They told me that the chances of me walking again were extremely low. I know _exactly_ how you feel; I remember. I remember how happy I was when I took my first steps, because it meant I could protect Tsuna and the Family." _And you,_ he added silently, _always you._

Gokudera turned, his regret written on his face, and Yamamoto cracked a smile. This wasn't a time for apologies; this was a happy day.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. Smile, huh? This is a great day; you're back on your feet. That's what you want, right?"

Yes, Yamamoto was happy for Gokudera. He knew all too well the joy of walking again after almost losing it. Yamamoto didn't blame Kaoru because he understood the other boy, they were friends; he would never, ever forgive the men who did this to 'Dera. But as happy as Yamamoto was, he was also dying a little inside. How long until he moved back into his own apartment?

How long before Gokudera didn't need him anymore?

Yamamoto didn't want to think about it too much, because if he thought about it, he'd remember how empty his apartment was going to feel after Gokudera moved back out. He shared the two bedroom with Jirou and Kojirou, and he loved them of course. But Rain Flames manifesting as animals couldn't take the place of a person, especially a person he loved.

He would remember how he was going to miss having to share the bathroom, or listen to Gokudera grumble about "stupid college," "stupid professors," and "fucking stupid finals." Yamamoto had reminded him that it was his choice to keep taking his online classes during rehab; Gokudera had promptly told him to fuck off.

He would remember how he spent so many nights sitting in the hallway with his back against Gokudera's door—because it wasn't the spare bedroom anymore, it was _Gokudera's_ bedroom—listening to the room's occupant sobbing quietly to himself. He'd wanted so badly each and every time to go in and hold Gokudera—to pull him into his arms and kiss away the tears.

So he didn't think about it too much, because it hurt to think about it.

He just said, "What about stopping for ice cream?"

Gokudera looked at him incredulously. "Are you fuckin' serious?"

Yamamoto grinned at him and laughed. "Of course! I'm always serious about ice cream."

Gokudera rolled his eyes and sighed, dropping his head against the window with a _thunk._

"Sure, why not?"


	11. He First felt It When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sides to every love story
> 
> And, in which the author just can't let sleeping dogs lie...bad choice of words

He first felt it when the crazy guy pulled a grenade launcher out of the pig—a light pressure on his shoulder, nothing too uncomfortable, but odd enough to draw his attention. He turned his head and found himself faced with a head of spiky silver hair that smelled like gunpowder; Gokudera mumbled in his sleep and pressed closer, cuddling Yamamoto's arm like a pillow. Light snores escaped his lips, and strands of hair fell in his face.

Yamamoto debated whether to shift positions; he wanted to be more comfortable, but didn't want to disturb the sleeping bomber. After a few futile wriggles, he gave up. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and put his arm around Gokudera, pulling him close. Gokudera made a soft noise—one that could have been mistaken for contentment—and snuggled closer, his head resting on Yamamoto's shoulder.

Paper cups with the melted remnants of their ice cream—chocolate for Gokudera and vanilla for Yamamoto—, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn, and empty soda cans littered the coffee table around his feet. It had been Gokudera's idea to watch movies, but he'd fallen asleep less than halfway through the second film.

Though Yamamoto certainly wasn't complaining.

He was too distracted to watch the movie now; he was preoccupied with the warm body next to him, the heart beating against his, the soft hair tickling his face. He sat through the rest of the film watching Gokudera sleep and hoping that this could last forever. How would Gokudera react if he found out he'd been cuddling with Yamamoto? He would go totally ballistic; Yamamoto was getting used to not being punched, he didn't want to break the winning streak.

Lady Luck was on Yamamoto's side that day, because Gokudera slept through the rest of the movie. When the credits started rolling, Yamamoto shut off the TV and Blue-ray, and knew that the moment had passed. He would love to stay the night on the couch with Gokudera using him like a huge pillow, but he didn't want to piss off Gokudera. Or worse, scare him off.

So he carefully shifted positions and scooped Gokudera up into his arms, careful not to jostle him too much. He hated how light Gokudera was in his arms and how he could feel his ribs; Gokudera had a nasty habit of not eating as much as he should. Gokudera's head landed in the crook of his neck, and he clutched onto Yamamoto's shirt, and muttered in his sleep. Yamamoto froze, one foot in Gokudera's room, as the bomber sighed four words:

_"…'Moto…don't leave me…"_

**XXXXXX**

He first felt it when he was taking an exam for chemistry—his final, taken a semester early. At first, it was just a tightening in his chest, making it a little harder to breathe. He rubbed his chest as he went, cleared his throat, drank water, but nothing made it feel any better.

**_General questions:_ **

**_1\. Which equation is_ ** **_not_ ** **_balanced? __ **

_a. K2CrO4 + Pb(NO3)2 E 2KNO3 + PbCrO4_

_b. 4Fe3O4 + O2 E 6Fe2O3_

_c. C7H16 + 15O2 E 7CO2 + 8H2O_

_d. 3 AgNO3 + (NH4)3PO4 E Ag3PO4 + 3NH4NO3_

_e. 2Al2O3 E 4Al + 3O2_

**_2\. Avogadro's number is? __ **

_a. 6.02 x 10-23 atoms/mole_

_b. 6.02 x 1022 atoms/mole_

_c. 6.02 x 1023 atoms/mole_

_d. 0.0821 atoms/mole_

_e. none of the above_

**_3\. Which statement about isotopes is_ ** **_incorrect_ ** **_: __ **

_a. 1H, 2H and 3H are isotopes_

_b. isotopes have the same atomic number_

_c. isotopes vary in the number of neutrons_

_d. isotopes have the same mass number_

_e. isotopes have different atomic masses_

He shoved the computer away and leaned back, chest shuddering as he drew in a deep breath. His chest felt heavy, like there was a weight pressing down on it or like it was full of cotton; speaking of cotton, his head felt like it was full of it, too. It passed after a few minutes and it eventually faded completely out of his mind.

It happened a few times after that, and looking back, he knew that. The time when he'd passed out from exhaustion only a half hour after waking up; feeling lethargic for days even though he got plenty of sleep. It wasn't anything he paid attention to at first, but after a while, he couldn't ignore it any longer.

Of course, by that time, it was too late.

The last time it happened, he was doing his dishes. The baseball idiot was out teaching that stupid sport to little kids, corrupting the poor brats, and Gokudera was enjoying the peace and quiet. Cool water over his hands as he washed the glass, rock music blaring harshly in his ears and pounding through his veins—and then it was happening, too fast for him to prepare. It swept over him so quickly he barely had time to comprehend it.

_CRASH!_

The glass shattered on the linoleum, but it wasn't until later that he registered the pain of the shards slicing his legs. His breath caught in his chest, and his lungs were on fire because he couldn't stop coughing, and it _hurt._ He couldn't breathe, he couldn't _breathe;_ he was light-headed—too light-headed, even, to stand. The world spun as his legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground.

The last he knew before the world went dark were hands on his shoulders and Yamamoto calling his name.


	12. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I am unreasonably cruel and completely unrepentant

He was standing in the apartment—standing, he was _standing,_ he'd forgotten what that felt like without pain—at Yamamoto's shoulder. When did he stop thinking of it as _Yamamoto's_ apartment, no, that didn't matter. What was he doing there? When did Yamamoto get home? Yamamoto's face was flushed and streaked with tears, and his shoulders were shaking; why were his shoulders shaking? Hayato looked down. Oh. It was strange; he was looking down at his own body, but he couldn't make himself care. Why didn't he care?

He should have been freaking out; he was looking down at his body, and he distantly knew he was dying—maybe he was already dead, he wasn't sure, he looked dead. But instead of feeling panic, he had an overwhelming sense of well-being and peace. Strange, it was strange; he couldn't remember feeling peaceful before. It was nice. He could see his body struggling to take a breath, eyes glazed and foggy, lips already turning blue, completely limp in Yamamoto's arms.

He shifted his focus from his body to Yamamoto, and tilted his head. Yamamoto's hands were pounding on his corporeal chest, and it took him a moment to recognize CPR. He shook his head sadly as Yamamoto bent and pressed their mouths together, exhaling into Gokudera's body. **_It won't work._** Even though he couldn't get the words out, he heard them; Yamamoto pounded on his chest and yelled, "Dammit, 'Dera, _wake up_! Please…" His voice cracked and his shoulders shuddered with a barely suppressed sob, and he tried again to coax Gokudera's body into breathing.

Gokudera sighed, and put a hand on Yamamoto's shoulder, and that's when he noticed; he could feel the other boy's shoulder under his hand, lean and muscular, but his hand was slightly transparent and he could see Yamamoto's T-shirt through it. Well. That was slightly creepy. He felt like he was floating, but he could see the floor beneath his feet, the same carpet as always; he could feel the pressure under his sneakers, so why did he feel like he could simply let go and…float away?

Oh right. Dead, or very near dead.

That constant anger that he'd felt every day as far back as he could remember was gone; he'd spent his entire life angry, a hot burning coal in his stomach constantly stoked by the idiocy around him, and now it was gone. There was nothing but peace and a warmth that was familiar and comforting, and he wanted nothing more than to let it envelope him and take him away. Already, he could feel his memories getting hazy; why was he always angry? Why did it matter?

It should have startled him when a woman's voice, young and melodic, broke through his thoughts.

**_Hayato…_ **

He turned, eyes landing on the woman, and he felt his heart sing. The woman was a bit taller than him, with long moonlit hair and gentle green eyes; she emitted a soft white glow, an aura that pulsated around her and lit her up from the inside out. Stunned, he took a step towards her, turning his back on Yamamoto and his failing attempts to entice life into a dying body that had already lost its soul.

 ** _Mother,_** he whispered.

She smiled and nodded, looking at him with pure love in her eyes. **_Oh, my little boy, how much you've grown, Hayato-chan._** Her lips didn't move, yet the words rang loud and clear. **_You've been through so much, Hayato, and I'm so proud of you._** He stumbled forward, and she held up her hand; he stilled.

 ** _I'm dead, aren't I?_** He knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.

She tilted her head. **_Perhaps. It's your choice, Hayato._**

His eyebrow rose in question; behind him, Yamamoto was crying and cradling Gokudera's prone body to him, having apparently given up on reviving him. "C'mon, 'Dera," Yamamoto sobbed, "please, please, _please_ come back to me! Don't leave me…"

Lavina smiled sadly. **_He loves you so much, Hayato, and he would do anything to stay with you._** Her smile spread. **_Quite a lovely young man, that one—sweet, devoted, and absolutely crazy about you._**

He nodded. **_He's been great, but…_** He trailed off, looking back at Yamamoto. The baseball player looked…broken, like his world was falling down. "I love you," Yamamoto whispered, "I can't lose you, not again."

Gokudera's heart hurt; he wanted to kneel next to Yamamoto and hold him, comfort him, kiss away the tears—ah. The penny dropped, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Tsuna's words echoed in his head just as his heartbeat echoed in his ears—funny, a ghost having a heartbeat. Maybe it was just in his head. But he knew something that wasn't.

Dammit, the Tenth had been right all along. He'd given the swordsman a chance, and he'd fallen in love with him. He couldn't imagine living without that damned cheerful idiot, and when he tried, arrows of pain pierced his heart. He didn't want to see the baseball idiot in pain, and hated himself for being the cause of the tears slipping down his face.

He was in love with Yamamoto Takeshi.

Lavina smiled. **_Oh, Hayato, you have a choice to make._** He turned back to his mother. **_You can come with me, and leave this life behind; leave all the pain and misery. Or you can go back to him, and you can fight to walk again, and you can try to have a life with him._**

She looked at him sadly, and the aura flickered around the edges. She offered him her hand.

**_Make your choice, my love._ **

Gokudera took a breath—rather unnecessary—and decided.


	13. Solace In His Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally get around to the happy ending

Gokudera woke up in the hospital—the heart machine beeping, the whirring of the air conditioner on high, the smell of antiseptic and bleach filling his nose, scratchy sheets, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose; he was starting to get used to it. Someone was holding his hand, and he knew who it was.

His chest burned and his head spun; breathing was hard, like he had liquid in his lungs. The last thing he remembered was falling and blacking out; he'd been coughing so badly that he'd fallen to his knees and his lungs had been on fire; he hadn't been able to take a breath without hacking. He'd fallen and then… _oh mother of…_ And then he'd been standing next to Yamamoto as he tried to revive him, and he'd talked with his mother.

In all likelihood, that had been a hallucination brought about by oxygen deprivation, bringing his desires to see his mother again to the surface; still, he wanted to believe that it had been real, that he'd really spoken to his mother's spirit. It _felt_ real, not like a dream. Then there was what he'd seen of Yamamoto, how he'd broken down. _That_ had felt real too.

He groaned and cracked his eyes; he blinked against the light and tried to sit up. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked up at Yamamoto, who gave him a grateful, sad smile and said, "Hey, hey, Gokudera, take it easy." His eyes shone, but whether it was with unshed tears or happiness, Gokudera didn't know.

Gokudera didn't fight him, relaxing into the bed and trying not to wince. Yamamoto settled back into his seat after carefully helping Gokudera into an upright position, holding Gokudera's hand in his own. "Welcome back," he said. "I thought I—we thought we'd lost you."

And Gokudera was taken back to the last time he'd woken up in the hospital after almost dying; Yamamoto had always been there, watching over him like some kind of guardian angel. Gokudera shifted, trying to get comfortable, and started to say something before he remembered the mask; he lifted his free hand to pull it off, but Yamamoto grabbed his hand, shaking his head.

"No, leave it, 'Dera. You need it to breathe." Gokudera let his hand drop; for once, he didn't object to the abbreviation of his name. Yamamoto brushed the silver fringe back out of Gokudera's face, and explained, "You almost died, Gokudera. They said it was respiratory failure—you couldn't breathe, and you passed out. When I got back, I found you on the floor, and you weren't breathing…I thought—" His voice broke.

Yamamoto swallowed, and when he spoke again, all his pain and fear bled into his words. "Oh, 'Dera, I'm sorry."

He must have seen the question in Gokudera's eyes. "I'm sorry for leaving like that, I'm sorry you got hurt in the first place, I'm sorry I—" He cut himself off, but Gokudera could hear the words hanging in the quiet room, could see them in his eyes:

_I'm sorry I didn't tell you I love you._

The words were there, but Yamamoto couldn't make himself say them aloud, because he was scared. Yamamoto was scared that Gokudera would reject him; more than that, he was terrified that once he told Gokudera how he felt, the bomber would hate him. He didn't know that Gokudera already knew.

He didn't know that Gokudera felt it, too.

Instead of trying to lift the mask again, Gokudera mouthed the words.

**_Don't be sorry, idiot._ **

Yamamoto shook his head. "I don't understand." Gokudera wasn't sure what it was that the swordsman didn't understand, so he took a deep breath and lifted the mask.

"Nothing for you to be sorry about, you idiot." His voice was raspy and hoarse, and his throat stung. Yamamoto pressed the mask back into place, giving him a stern look. "You need to leave that on, 'Dera!" he scolded. After a moment's pause, he added softly, sadly, "Please."

This time, Gokudera nodded, and Yamamoto looked relieved that he wasn't fighting him. His expression sobered. "What do you mean? I left you alone when I should have stayed; if I hadn't, if I'd stayed with you that day, you wouldn't be here again." The words went unspoken, because Gokudera didn't need to hear them to know they were there: _you wouldn't have almost died._

In an act completely out of character, Gokudera grabbed Yamamoto's collar and, before he could change his mind, pulled him into a rough mockery of a hug. What the hell was he doing? So he might possibly, conceivably have "feelings" for the baseball player; this was completely insane. Still, he had to admit that while the feeling of Yamamoto relaxing against him was strange and foreign, it wasn't unpleasant—far from it, in fact. And because he was rather enjoying the feeling of Yamamoto in his arms, he ignored the hands fisted in his shirt and dropped his chin on the top of Yamamoto's head, holding the shaking baseball idiot as the dam finally broke and he dissolved into abandoned sobs.

When Yamamoto finally pulled himself together and straightened up, the baseball idiot was flushed and his eyes bloodshot, but his smile didn't waver when he flashed it Hayato's way. He wiped his shirtsleeve across his wet eyes, and blushed when he spotted the wet spot on Gokudera's shoulder. He chuckled, embarrassed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Heh, sorry about that," he said.

Gokudera rolled his eyes. **_Stop saying sorry, idiot._**

Yamamoto opened his mouth to apologize again before thinking better of it, instead saying, "Yeah, okay. Still, you have no idea how it felt when I came back."

Gokudera chuckled darkly, and immediately regretted it; laughing in an oxygen mask was not ideal, and Yamamoto rubbed his back until he stopped coughing. Blinking away tears, Gokudera mouthed, **_Wrong. I know. I heard you. You called me back._**

For a moment, the baseball idiot didn't understand. Then Gokudera could see the realization pass over Yamamoto's face, then return and camp there. "You heard…?" **_Everything._** His shoulders shuddered with a deep, shaky breath.

"I should have told you sooner, but I wanted to pretend for just a little while longer." Gokudera could see it in his eyes; Yamamoto wanted so badly for the bomber to forgive him. "I wanted to pretend that you were staying with me because you wanted to, not because you had to, and more than anything, I don't want you to hate me." His voice broke, and he dropped his head, whispering miserably, "I'm sorry, please don't hate me…"

Gokudera squeezed Yamamoto's hand weakly, drawing pained eyes up to his face. **_Don't hate you,_** he mouthed. He wanted to take off the mask—he wanted to say the words aloud—but Yamamoto got the message. Confusion and, yes, a fair bit of hope clouded his face, pushing aside the pain. "Y-you knew? You knew how I feel about you, and you… _don't_ hate me?"

Gokudera struggled to take a nervous breath. **_Don't hate you,_** he repeated, **_couldn't hate you._** Spots danced across his vision and a headache started pounding in his temples, and the filtered air tasted like plastic.

"What do you mean, you couldn't—" Realization dawned. " _Oh_. Oh, Gokudera, do you mean…" He trailed off, eyes wide with budding hope. Gokudera wanted to tell him yes, to assure Yamamoto that he wanted to see where this went, but he couldn't. Instead, he let Yamamoto see the answer in his eyes and the small smirk beneath the foggy mask. Yamamoto's lips spread in a joyful smile, and he kissed the back of Gokudera's hand happily before kissing his cheek.

"I promise, I won't let you down. You won't regret giving me a chance," he said, practically glowing with excitement.

Gokudera hummed, but didn't say anything. He closed his eyes and let himself slip away, and the last thing he knew before he fell into Morpheus's arms was Yamamoto pressing a kiss against his forehead and a sense of peace.

**_I love you too, idiot._ **


	14. Bright, Shiny Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Apparently, I'm capable of happy endings. Who would've guessed? I must be losing my edge.

Humming cheerfully, Yamamoto shifted the bags in his arms, trying not to drop them as he unlocked the apartment. He was looking forward to a night of spaghetti, wine, and seducing his grumpy boyfriend, and then a lazy morning in bed with his lover. After a moment of fiddling with the key, there was a _click_ and he pushed open the door, closing it behind him with his foot.

"I'm home," he called out. There was no response, but he hadn't expected one; the only sounds in the apartment was his locking the door and the faint sound of the fan turning in lazy circles above his head. He kicked off his shoes and deposited the grocery bags on the counter, then started down the hallway.

The apartment wasn't some posh retreat—a shared bedroom, an office, one bathroom, and furnished mostly with stuff bought from yard sales or salvaged from street corners or free-for-alls—but it was in a part of the city that the police didn't patrol regularly. It was also close enough to the Vongola Mansion that they could get there quickly if there was an emergency. That was what counted. Yamamoto would admit that he saw the appeal of a penthouse in a classy hotel, but in his line of work, drawing attention to himself was the last thing he wanted.

Plus, the neighborhood was colorful and the residents of this particular apartment were well known as Vongola; no one would dare try to rob them, and anyone who tried would find themselves on the receiving end of a vicious backlash from the neighborhood. Many of them depended on the Vongola Family for protection and safety, and wouldn't allow that to be threatened.

He found Hayato at his desk in the office, going through a pile of reports. Yamamoto folded his arms and leaned against the doorway, watching his lover with a soft smile. _Mmm,_ he thought, admiring his lover. All this time later and Gokudera was still drop-dead sexy. His hair was shorter and he'd gained a few more scars (then, so had Takeshi), but he was still Yamamoto's angel.

It had been five years since the warehouse incident and the events surrounding it, and despite all the odds, they'd managed to stay together. They were a match made in hell; some days one wanted to kill the other, and some days the other Guardians wanted to just knock them both out, lock them in closet together and throw away the key. Gokudera was difficult and infuriating, and Yamamoto wouldn't trade him for anyone in the world, and he hoped Gokudera felt the same about him.

Gokudera knew he was there, but didn't acknowledge him and continued to sign off the paperwork; Yamamoto doubted he was even reading them. After a few moments, Yamamoto crossed the office they shared and wrapped his arms around Gokudera, kissing his temple.

"Mmm," he hummed. "You hungry, love?"

Gokudera made an uncommitted sound, not looking up. Takeshi sighed and put his hand on Gokudera's, extricating the pen. He kissed him again, this time on the side of his mouth, and nuzzled soft hair. "C'mon, Hayato, call it quits for the day," he murmured.

Gokudera _hmmed_ and looked up at him; Yamamoto met him with a kiss. It was simple and chaste with no tongue, but their lips moved against each other out of habit; the sparks were still there, even five years later. After several moments, Yamamoto pulled back, grinning down at his lover. With that stupid grin still on his face, he leaned down and scooped Gokudera up into his arms.

"Oi!" Gokudera exclaimed in indignation, squirming. Yamamoto laughed, carrying his lover bridal style out of the office. "Maa, maa, Hayato. The paperwork can wait until tomorrow. Let's have dinner," his eyes twinkled, "and we can have some _fun._ "

Gokudera stopped struggling and wrapped his arms around Takeshi's neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Yamamoto's throat. "Or," he purred, "we can skip the dinner, grab the wine, and go straight to the fun."

Takeshi grinned and slid his hand up Gokudera's shirt, stopping briefly in the kitchen so Hayato could grab the wine and two glasses before heading to the bedroom.

"That is an _excellent_ plan, Hay-a-to."


End file.
